He would win. He would win Mariah for his wife. And there wasn't a damn thing on God's good earth that would prevent him.
Especially not the lady herself.
Chapter Six
Unaware that she was now firmly fixed in the sights of a certain nobleman, Mariah did her best to pursue her regular daily activities without spending too much time dwelling on thoughts of said nobleman.
It was a worthy goal and one at which she failed miserably.
She spent time with Nell, listening, reassuring and finally sending her home to a repentant husband. Nell's attitude had changed a little, as so many women found after a conversation with Mariah.
Trying to make sense of a difficult situation, Mariah simply pointed out the unvarnished truth of the frustrations facing everyone these days. She encouraged Nell to take control of more of her life and to stand up to George when he was sober, refusing to allow him to wander down to the inn. She suggested Nell talk to George at greater length, hoping that perhaps such conversation might deter him from seeking solace inside a tankard—or five—of ale.
Mariah knew George wasn't at heart a violent man. He was simply one of many agonizing over trying to make ends meet and angry when the ends remained far apart. He was responsible for a family—a heavy load to bear for a conscientious husband and father. At no time would Mariah condone violence, but in this instance she knew both parties. There was no need to spirit Nell away or summon the authorities on some trumped-up charge against George.
Rarely did Mariah need to go that far. The mere threat of such a separation was usually enough to restore domestic harmony. Occasionally, Mariah would drop the word to the innkeeper's wife about a customer who was not "himself" after a few too many. The whispers would spread and the offender would find himself without ale and with a few too many pitying looks cast his way.
Much could be accomplished in small communities by the power of the spoken word. No man wanted to be branded as a wife-beater. Especially when it limited his access to his friends and his social life. The repercussions were quite strong, since most men were cronies, as were their wives. It only took one hint of serious abuse and the target would find himself alone more often than not.
Wives stuck together these days, thanks to Mariah's "sanctuary" and her regular weekly meetings. None would tolerate her husband mixing with another known for continual bad behavior.
Oddly enough, Mariah had been able to welcome "other" women into the little circle with less difficulty than she'd anticipated.
And on this morning in particular, she was glad of the diversion. Two of the local ladies—those of dubious repute—had become regulars, driving over from Lymington for this gathering and befriending the simple country folk they met.
Lucy and Sal, residents of one of the few brothels in Lymington, were funny, enlightening and—because of their location—little threat to the Buckler's Hard women.
Thus they found open arms and smiles greeting them instead of the usual turned shoulder and the cut direct. Stunned at first, but needing the chance to relax amongst other women for a change, both Lucy and Sal had become vital and eager participants in the sanctuary meetings.
The information they shared—well, Mariah still blushed at times. She wondered privately if that had a lot to do with the more harmonious marital relationships that seemed to be the norm around Buckler's Hard.
Of course, it was natural that when women congregate, the conversation would eventually end up with the opposite sex.
Given Mariah's preoccupation with just such a topic, she found herself paying closer attention than usual on this particular morning. And also praying that Marcus wasn't eavesdropping outside the door.
"So you got to take his cock like this, see?" Lucy was demonstrating the fine art of satisfying one's man with one's mouth to the red-cheeked, fascinated curiosity of eight wide-eyed women.
She was using a cucumber as a prop.
Mariah couldn't decide whether to giggle or dive under the pillows on the couch next to her chair.
"You puts yer lips around it, all nice and gentle like, then run yer mouth down over it."
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the slight slurps Lucy made as she pleasured the cucumber in her hand. "Now don't be thinkin' you got to take the whole damn thing down yer throat." She grinned. "That'll make you gag, sure as anything. Especially if you got yerself one of them fine men with a big cock."
There were giggles and chuckles then, followed by one or two blushes. Mariah was one of the ones blushing this morning. She'd certainly qualify for that last statement.
"See, what you gotta do is move yer hand in time with yer mouth. That way he gets his whole cock stroked and you ain't gaggin' around it." Lucy looked around. "Make sense?"
Several women nodded.
"Doesn't it hurt him if you pull the skin?" Mariah couldn't help asking the question, not realizing until after the words were out that everyone's head had turned to her and she was now the focus of a number of wide-eyed stares.
She felt her cheeks heat. "Well, it was a logical question."
Lucy nodded. "Sure, love. Glad you asked. But if you slick yer spit down over the length early on, you'll find him smoother than a greased pig."
"Ah. Er—thank you." Mariah tried to sink back into the cushions and look coolly interested. She had a horrid feeling she failed at both. The main reason, of course, was that she could do nothing else but visualize herself practicing this activity on Marcus.
And the mere thought was dampening places that shouldn't be getting damp at all, let alone at this hour of the morning and in the company of other women, to boot.
Damn the man.
There were a few interested comments, a brief mention of various other techniques, a promise from Sal to cover the interesting topic of a man's balls at a later date—during which Mariah made herself a mental note to see if there were peaches or tomatoes or something else round in season—then it was time for tea and the usual gossip.
"So we've got a crop of revenue officers quartered over Calshot way, I hear." Nora Dunnigan sipped her tea and looked around coyly. "Any eligible ones, d'you think?"
Mariah sighed. It was well known that Nora had four daughters to marry off. She'd been dropping such hints as long as Mariah had known her, but failed to get even one of them engaged as of this moment despite insisting they all bathe at least once a month, like it or not.
"Speaking of officers..." Mary Rogers flicked a glance at Mariah. "A little bird told me there was ever such a handsome gentleman here, visiting Mistress Dean." She paused for effect. "All night."
The heads swiveled once more and it took every ounce of Mariah's inner strength to maintain her composure and meet their gazes. "That's correct."
"Oooh." Lucy looked fascinated. "Spill the beans. Not often we get to listen to you, ma'am. Not when it comes to gentlemen callers, anyway."
"Nothing to tell, really." Mariah tried desperately for a casual tone. "He's Sir Marcus Camberley."
"Oh my. A gentleman." Nora Dunnigan nearly choked on her tea. "How do you know him, dear?"
Intimately. Mariah bit back the words. "Well, as a matter of fact..." She paused. What on earth was she to say? Not all these ladies knew of the rather illegal activities of some of their number. And she'd prefer to keep it that way for everybody's sake.
It looked like she was trapped into Marcus' unlikely story. "He's come to renew his offer of marriage. We met...er...a long time ago. Only recently did he learn of my whereabouts."
A variety of expressions greeted this casual statement. They ranged from fascinated astonishment—Lucy and Sal—to plainly visible envy—Nora Dunnigan—and just about everything in between.
Mary was the first to break the silence. "You're going to be married? Does this mean you're leaving us, Mariah?"
No matter what the private thoughts of these women, Mary's question brought identical looks of dismay to just about everyone's face. Mariah quickly answer
ed.
"Absolutely not." She sat up straight and stared at each woman in turn. "My life is here, in Buckler's Hard. I said he was offering. I didn't say I was accepting. In fact, I've already turned him down. Several times."
Chatter broke out immediately, filling the room with an assortment of sentiments, prime amongst which was the air of relief emanating from most of the guests present. Of course there were opinions too.
"I don't know, Mariah. Might not be a bad thing for you..."
"You're a widow. You know what marriage entails. Seems to me like freedom's a far better bet..."
"But he's a gentleman. Probably got a nice estate somewhere. You ought to think about it, dear..."
"I'll bet he's an old lecher, huh?" The last comment was from Sal, who was smiling wisely and nodding. "Or some puffed-up nob who wants a handmaid waitin' on him for the rest of his life. An' warming his bed too, most like." She shuddered dramatically. "I've seen the type. All bluster and coin and nuthin' to really recommend 'em to any woman at all."
Unfortunately, at that moment, a loud knock sounded on the door, making them all jump.
Mariah jumped too, then wondered if there was some problem that had brought Ned looking for her. She immediately rose and opened the door.
Marcus stood there, smiling at her. "Sorry to bother you, darling. I just wanted you to know I'm riding down to the village for a bit. I'll be back later this afternoon." He reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek.
Mariah noted the quick glance he flicked around the room. "Good morning, ladies." He nodded politely at everyone, smiled once more at Mariah, then left.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Finally, Lucy heaved a huge sigh and turned a disbelieving eye on Mariah. "Woman, you are out of your fucking mind."
*~*~*~*
Marcus was still grinning as he rode toward the sanctuary that housed Mariah and her odd assortment of friends. They'd be gone now, but he'd bet his last guinea that they'd had something to say to Mariah.
He'd done it on purpose, of course. Nothing like a few allies in the enemy camp, so to speak. He'd do anything, no matter how underhanded, to secure her as his wife. So he was a devious and horrid man. His grin widened. Who cared? It was the end result that mattered, not how it was accomplished.
He had indeed ridden to the village, then farther to Calshot, where he'd spent an enlightening couple of hours with his old friend, Rogue Chambers.
Rogue had been glad to see him and the first moments had been spent in the usual male pastime of swapping slaps on the shoulders, shaking hands and then lying massively about the latest adventures they'd both experienced.
After that bonding ritual had concluded, the two men left the barracks and strolled together along the pebbled beach, watching the gray-blue waters of the Solent lap gently along the edge. The Isle of Wight looked close enough to touch on this day, dappled with sunshine, boats busying themselves ferrying passengers to an assortment of local destinations.
Rogue had been thoughtful and careful in his opening words.
"Gathered some information last night about your intended, Marcus."
"Really?" Marcus watched a small yacht negotiate the current as it headed for Southampton Water, sails billowing in the light breeze.
"Ale loosens tongues hereabouts." Rogue chuckled. "As it does everywhere, of course."
"Of course."
Not mistaking the brief answer for lack of interest, Rogue continued. "She's quite a character, they say. Runs some sort of place where women can hide from their men if they need to. Not the most popular thing, of course, but it's accepted. Some old lore about sanctuary."
Marcus nodded. "She told me. I've seen it, met a few of the women as a matter of fact. Not a bad idea, on the whole."
"Agreed." Rogue looked sad. "Pity it's necessary, but there you have it. Lot of frustration here in the country. More than a few people close to the edge of surviving, by the looks of it. Damn Parliament and damn the wars that bring us to this. And damn the past year's failed harvest too."
Both men were quiet then, both knowing the futility of railing against such things as the weather, yet both aware that war was something humans tended to excel at without realizing the long-term complications. Rogue knew them better than most.
"Anyway," Rogue shrugged, "getting back to your Mariah, apparently her late husband was a bastard."
Marcus' glance shot to his friend's face. "In what sense?"
"In the worst sense." Rogue made a moue of disgust. "Drunkard, loutish and, I'm sorry to say, abusive. Which explains quite a bit of what she does today."
"I thought he was a magistrate or something."
"He was." Rogue picked up a flat stone and idly skimmed it over the surface of the water. "Hah. Five skips. I'm getting good at this."
"You need to find something useful to do, my friend." Marcus huffed. "Go on with your tale. I need to know everything I can about Mariah."
"Well, the unlamented Mr. Dean broke his neck one night while riding home sauced to the gills. Nobody was terribly upset, although Mariah was a dutiful widow from then on. It wasn't until about a year later that she started encouraging the whole sanctuary notion and welcoming women into the farmhouse. Couldn't say how the idea began, but you know how it is with country folk. They like their tales of mystery and love their own personal legends."
Marcus, who'd only just managed to put his own experiences with strange and mystical legends behind him, merely nodded.
"Consensus was that Mariah was a great deal better off without him. Not financially, since he left her barely a farthing other than the property, but in every other respect..."
"Hmm."
The two men reached the end of the beach and by mutual agreement rested on a few fallen logs that had been stripped and bleached by the ocean before arriving pell-mell on the shoreline.
"'Tis said your Mariah's a strong woman who'll fight tooth and nail for what she believes is right. 'Tis also said she'll not marry again, much to the disgust of our erstwhile friend Stinson, whose pursuit of her has been quite obvious." Rogue grinned. "Apparently her resistance has him most disturbed. He can't understand why she keeps turning him down."
Marcus grinned back. "I didn't think I'd find myself ever saying this, but I have something in common with that oaf. She's turned me down too."
With the liberty allowed by a long friendship, Rogue spoke the words that were clearly uppermost in his mind. "Well, fuck her into accepting you."
"I tried."
"Do it again. Keep doing it until she can't think straight and says yes by mistake."
"I want to. But I'm afraid if I do that, I won't be able to think straight either and I'll forget to ask her."
Rogue's laughter rang out across the water. "She's the one, isn't she?"
"Undoubtedly." Marcus stretched. "No question about it. She's mine. But convincing her is near to bloody impossible at the moment."
"You'll manage it. Somehow. I can't see any other result. Not from you." Rogue sounded confident. "Mind you, Stinson's not much in the way of comparison. I think any woman with a lick of sense would turn him down. He wanted to be the big man in Buckler's Hard, it seems. Magistrate Dean stole his thunder on that one, but dished it with his consequent behavior. Nowadays, Stinson sees smugglers under every barrel and pier, summons us from our well-earned rest at a moment's notice and has yet to deliver anything in the way of proof."
"Umm." Marcus remained quiet on that particular topic.
"To his way of thinking, which I will admit is asinine in the extreme, if he uncovers some nefarious smuggling plot, he'll win the approval of Buckler's Hard en masse and achieve the fame and glory he's looking for. With the widow of the late magistrate by his side, his world will be filled with light, all shining on him."
"Fucking nincompoop." Marcus curved his lip and spat out the words.
"And then some. He's obviously not considered that if there is any smuggling going on,
it's the local lads who are doing it. His motives are selfish and stupid. He's not thought any further than the end of his own nose. God forbid he ever be in the right place at the right time. I might end up having to arrest a few smugglers and confiscate some untaxed brandy, but he'd find himself with a knife in his guts. Any of the families affected by his actions would do it, if I didn't do it myself on grounds of sheer stupidity."
Marcus glanced at his friend. "You're sympathetic to these folks, then."
Rogue ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I have a job to do and I take it as seriously as I can. For as long as I'm assigned here, I'll try to keep the peace. If somebody lands a cargo of French silk under my nose, I'll arrest 'em. But I can see more than three feet in front of me. I'm not going out of my way to ferret out a small band of lads—some of whom may have served with me in Belgium, for God's sake—who are simply trying to provide for their families. And with the autumn drawing in, it'll soon stop anyway."
Marcus stood and turned back to face the way they'd come. "It's not easy, is it?"
Rogue joined him and the two men retraced their steps down the beach. "No, it's not. I hate this political shit, I hate having to walk a fine line between what's right and what's expected and I abhor arses like Stinson." He sighed. "I should never have fucked her, you know."
"La Diamanté?"
"Yes. It was stupid and completely beyond my control. Sir Henry Fowler was livid, since he'd made it clear he was going to be her protector. Next thing I know, orders appear from Whitehall and I'm headed south without a chance to even speak to her again."
"And the lady herself?"
"I heard she closed the door in Fowler's face the next night." Rogue looked uncommonly pleased with himself. "I was already packing my kit or I would've been there to hasten his departure..."
Marcus nodded, understanding completely. "A lot of men are done in by the wrong word in the right ear. Fowler would definitely know who to whisper to."
"I suppose." Rogue stared absently over the water. "By God, Marcus, she was...she haunts me still. It's been several months. I've heard nothing since I left town, but I still can't forget her."
Buckler's Hard Page 7